Page 37 of My Playboy Neighbor

Chapter Nine

Maya

She stared at her phone screen for the hundredth time, his desperate texts from the night before burning into her retinas.Each message had been more intense than the last, culminating in that final confession about sitting on his balcony with whiskey and regrets.

She'd read them over and over, her heart breaking a little more each time.The man who'd accused her of exploitation, who'd thrown her out of his life with cold precision, had spent hours begging for forgiveness through her phone screen.

I looked at the photos.Really looked at them.They're beautiful, Maya.You're beautiful.And I'm an idiot who doesn't deserve a second chance but is asking for one anyway.

She set down her coffee and pulled up the message that had shattered her resolve completely:

I'm sitting on my balcony with a bottle of whiskey and the worst regrets of my life.If you change your mind about talking, you know where to find me.

The timestamp read 2:47 a.m.By the time she'd seen it this morning, he had probably been passed out drunk, alone with his pain and his empty bottle.The image made her chest ache despite her anger.

She'd been editing photos for three hours, trying to lose herself in work and failing miserably.Every image reminded her of him—the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes when he'd looked at her like she was precious.Like she mattered.

She gave up trying to work.She couldn't concentrate, couldn't think about anything except the broken desperation in those late-night messages.The man who controlled everything and everyone around him had completely fallen apart over losing her.

Maybe that should have felt like victory.Instead, it just made her heart hurt.

A soft knock at her door made her glance at the clock.It was probably housekeeping, though they usually came later.She padded to the door in her silk pajamas, expecting to find a cheerful resort employee with fresh towels.Instead, she found him.

He was leaning against the doorframe like he needed the support, still wearing yesterday's clothes—wrinkled jeans and a white button-down that looked like he'd slept in it.His dark hair was disheveled, there were shadows under his eyes, and he clutched a large coffee in one hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.He looked exactly like a man who'd spent the night drinking alone and regretting every choice that had led him there.

"Please don't close the door," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

Her hand gripped the doorframe, every instinct telling her to protect herself from more hurt."You look like hell."

"I feel worse."His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating."I haven't slept.Haven't showered.I've been sitting outside your door for two hours, trying to find the courage to knock."

"Outside my door?"

He gestured to the hallway behind him, and she noticed the rumpled throw blanket on the floor near the wall, an empty coffee cup, and what looked like room service plates.He'd made camp in the hallway like some kind of lovesick teenager.

"Jesus.The staff—"

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